


Without a Sound

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-06-30
Updated: 1999-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:15:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/264936">Prometheus Bound</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without a Sound

The week that passed after Ahriman's visit left Methos nervous and twitchy. He knew he was doing what the demon wanted, but he didn't want to see MacLeod's face as he showed up at his doorstep. MacLeod could take care of himself; he really was the champion. Methos would only distract him.

He stared at the phone, not believing his own excuses. A quick phone call to either MacLeod or Joe would settle the unease in his stomach, but if something went truly wrong, he knew Joe would find him. Somehow. He hadn't exactly hidden his tracks this time.

He pushed open the doors and entered the dry, cool library, but the estate laws since 1870 failed to draw his attention. He felt his body flush, and looked down to see his hand on his thigh. He had been monk-like for almost a year, and now he couldn't stop thinking of MacLeod.

One visit. MacLeod would push him away and that would be the end of it. He was never any good at following orders anyway.

# # #

The gangplank swayed gently, and Methos faltered halfway up it. His breath was visible, and the air smelled of snow for the first time. It had been a mistake to come, but it would be a mistake to turn around. He could feel the warning from inside the barge, and knew it meant MacLeod could feel his. He went up the rest of the way and sat down on the deck.

MacLeod joined him. He wore a pair of sweats with a blanket over his shoulders, but didn't seem to mind the chill. They looked at each other, but Methos didn't know what to say and MacLeod had obviously just woken up.

"You cut your hair," Methos finally said.

MacLeod ran his hands through the short hair, which was now shooting off in all directions. His fingers tried to pull at it as if that was all it took to make it longer. "You haven't."

Methos almost touched his own hair. It was longer now, almost the same length as it was when they first met. "Oh, you know, I thought it was time for a change."

MacLeod touched his hair again. "Yeah."

"Um...look, are you going to invite me in or am I going to slink off feeling incredibly stupid for coming and hate myself in the morning?"

"Methos--" MacLeod began, sounding tired, and Methos took the hint. He stood up, hands still in his pocket, but MacLeod reached up and caught his arm.

"You're already here."

Methos licked his lips. He had been expecting anger and accusations, both from of them, but this quiet awkwardness made him ache. "And?" he asked. He looked at MacLeod.

"You might as well stay."

Methos nodded, not sure if he should thank the man, but he wondered if the clich about pulling teeth was similar to their conversation. MacLeod didn't wait for him to figure it out; he led the way down to the interior and turned the lights on.

The living area wasn't much warmer than the outside; Methos' breath was still visible. It seemed colder with the stark white and the open space. He hugged his jacket around himself and stood in the middle of the barge. MacLeod pulled his blanket closer to him as well, and looked around. "I'll start the fire."

"Coffee?" Methos asked, moving to the kitchen. He wanted a beer, but didn't want to wrap his hands around the cold bottle.

"No."

Methos stopped. "Maybe I should go," he said.

MacLeod looked at him. He had lost a lot of his skin colour, and the stubble and shadows of his face made him look older. "You'll hate yourself regardless of where you are," he said.

Methos should have gotten angry, but he was too tired to. "That assumes a lot," he said, instead.

"Does it?" MacLeod asked.

"I didn't come here for this," Methos said, heading for the stairs, but MacLeod shed his blanket and blocked off his path between him and the door.

"What did you come here for, Methos? I thought you said you were done with your midnight visits," MacLeod said. He didn't seem to notice the goose bumps over his arms, and as Methos watched, the man started to shiver. Methos put his hand over MacLeod's chest, and the skin felt almost chilled.

"I came here for you," Methos said.

"Maybe I'm not available."

Methos nodded, but saw the pain on MacLeod's face. His eyes dark and his mouth was a harsh line. "Then maybe I made a mistake," Methos finally said.

MacLeod stepped out of his way, and Methos walked past him to the door. He put his hand on the doorknob, but turned around again. "What do you want me to say?" Methos asked.

"Not now, Methos."

"I fucked up. You fucked up. We both made mistakes. MacLeod...I'm sorry. I'm sorry Richie died. I'm sorry I didn't believe you. I'm sorry I let you go to the racetrack alone."

MacLeod had his back to him and he didn't turn around. "You should have trusted me," he said, voice low.

"But I didn't," Methos said. "I couldn't. You..." Methos paused. He wanted to say MacLeod had hurt him, but that made him too vulnerable. "See you around, Mac," he said, and opened the door.

"Where did you go?" MacLeod asked.

"Away," Methos said. "Not far enough."

MacLeod turned around. "What happened?"

"Ahriman found me," Methos said. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think about it. "Told me to stay away."

"Ahriman's taken care of."

MacLeod's voice was flat. Methos went to touch his shoulder, expecting to be pushed away, and was so shocked that MacLeod let him that his hand just sat there. MacLeod picked it up, and Methos shuddered as MacLeod worked his thumbs into the palm. His body tingled. MacLeod kissed his thumb-pad and let him go, but Methos just stood there, stupid and stunned.

"You're..." Methos tried.

"I'm better. You look..."

Methos rubbed his cheek with the hand MacLeod kissed. "Go on, say it, MacLeod."

"Tired," MacLeod finished.

Methos coughed. "I guess I can fix that then," he hugged his jacket around him. "See you around, MacLeod."

MacLeod almost caught his arm, but pulled back a second later. "Spend the night."

"I don't think so," Methos said. He turned to go, but MacLeod stepped forward. "You aren't disappearing again, Methos, are you?"

"It would be easier, wouldn't it?" Methos asked.

"Yes. But we don't do the easy thing, remember?"

"Of course not. It's much more fun to see exactly how many times organs can be ripped out," Methos said. He still hadn't turned around, which made it easier.

"Not this time."

"What makes you so sure?" Methos demanded. His shoulders hadn't been that tense when he stepped onto the barge.

"It's different. I'm different."

"And I am exactly the same, MacLeod."

"I understand that."

"You don't MacLeod. You can't."

"Give me a chance, Methos, please."

Methos relaxed slightly. "Pierre's. Noon tomorrow."

"Methos?"

Methos didn't turn. "What?"

"The couch isn't that comfortable, but it's available."

"It may be, but I'm not. Good night, MacLeod."

He walked up the stairs and into the street. He was able to breathe again normally, but the lump in his throat and his groin didn't go away.

Methos walked until he found a hotel that looked inviting. Snow fell in light flurries around him and the streets were deserted, but for the first time in over a year, he didn't feel the cold.

The next day, he ordered a bottle of wine before MacLeod arrived. Two inches of wet, slippery snow covered the roads, and what little traffic there was had slowed to compensate for it.

MacLeod came in, shaking off his coat and threw it over the chair beside him. "Snow."

"Cold enough for it," Methos said as MacLeod sat down.

"Did you drive?"

"Took a cab."

"Safer."

"Oh, yeah. Do you want to talk about the relative advantages of each of the cab companies or shall we distract ourselves with pouring the wine?"

"Wine's good."

"I thought so," Methos said. MacLeod poured himself a glass, but didn't embarrass himself by continuing the stupid conversation.

The pause in conversation wasn't that awkward. Methos drummed his fingernails against the tablecloth until he realized what he was doing and then stopped himself. The waiter rescued them with menus, and that took up ten minutes. But then the waiter came back and took their orders and then menus and there was a long silence again.

"You redid the barge."

"I needed a change."

"Apparently."

"Sleep well last night?"

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"You should be, it was your fault."

"How was it your fault?"

"I had forgotten the way you smell. It bothered me."

"Are you telling me I stink?"

"No," Methos said, quietly. "It bothered me that I had forgotten."

"I remember how you smell."

"But then we've already established that you are a far better man than me."

MacLeod reached across the table and took his hand, but Methos pulled it back. "I wish you would stop berating yourself."

"No one else will do it for me."

"I'll do it."

"You'll berate me?" Methos asked, raising an eyebrow. "Isn't that what got us here to begin with?"

"I'll do a much better job this time."

"You couldn't possibly do worse."

"You're right. This is much better than talking about the weather," MacLeod said.

Methos flushed. "Forgive me. I overstepped myself."

The food came, rescuing them again. If they could only meet at restaurants, the longest they could feel awkward was fifteen minutes. Methos cut his scallops in half with his fork so that they would last longer. They didn't talk much during eating, which was a blessing. "Come back to the barge with me."

"No, I don't think so."

"Methos--"

"Dinner, tomorrow."

"What if I'm busy tomorrow?"

"Make yourself unbusy."

"Is that an order?"

Methos licked his lips. "More like...a request."

"Then say please."

"Please," Methos lowered his voice. He looked up, and MacLeod's face went red. He cleared his throat and threw down his napkin. "Then tomorrow."

Methos went back to his hotel room and studied until he realized he needed to turn the light on. He groped for it, and stared at the phone. What the hell.

"Hello?" MacLeod answered.

"I forgot to tell you where."

"I had assumed you'd be coming here."

"There's an idea."

MacLeod was silent. Methos waited. Just hearing his breathing was calming. "Should I be saying something?"

"Not if you don't want to."

"Methos, why are you playing this game? You know I love you. I know you love me. Why are we doing this dance?"

"I have to make sure."

"Make sure of what? Who don't you trust here, Methos?"

Methos smiled, but of course MacLeod couldn't see. "Me, of course. I'm tired of being a whore."

"You are not a whore."

"Oh, yes, I am. Not the on-the-back kind...but I used you to fill something in me. Friends first, MacLeod. Please."

MacLeod sighed. "Friends first."

Methos pulled the blankets back on the bed. "Don't hang up," he said.

"What do you want me to say?"

Methos stripped off his shirt. If MacLeod heard the whisper of cloth against skin, he didn't say anything about it. "You don't have to say anything, Mac," Methos said. "Just...don't hang up."

MacLeod didn't. Methos listened to his breathing for a while, letting it calm him down. Eventually he woke to the muffled beeping of a phone off the hook, and he dug through the blankets to find the headset and hang it again. He had no problems falling back to sleep again, for the first time in a month.

Mac met him at the door, and the warning in his head was warm and welcoming. So was MacLeod as he worked his hands into Methos' coat for the welcome kiss. He had forgotten how warm and rough MacLeod's fingers were.

"Friends first," Methos said, trying to ignore the sudden flush in his body. MacLeod had spared him the tablecloth and wine seduction dinner, and lamb roasting in the oven was enticing. Methos entered the kitchen and went to the fridge to find a cold beer. He took it over and carefully disposed of it in the trashcan. MacLeod watched, amused, but went back to stirring the risotto.

"So how's Joe?" Methos asked.

"You haven't seen him yet?"

"No, I was...uh...occupied."

"Busy. He organized the service," MacLeod rubbed his face. "It's easier to arrange when they have the papers, birth, insurance..."

Methos moved up behind him, but MacLeod didn't want his comfort. Rather than push him away, MacLeod distracted himself by pulling out the lamb. Methos watched as he distracted himself with the last of the preparations and they ate in front of the fire.

They didn't talk while they ate, although they didn't eat as much as they drank. It was just easier. The risotto was rich and thick and the lamb done to perfect rareness, but it seemed to him that MacLeod could have been eating sawdust and his wasn't much tastier. They had finished off the second bottle before bringing their plates to the sink.

Methos moved to the floor in front of him and took his hand, splaying out the fingers; MacLeod watched him carefully, but didn't try to stop him. Methos massaged the individual fingers, working down to the pads. "Why did you come back?" MacLeod asked.

"How am I supposed to answer that?"

"How about truthfully?"

"I...need you."

MacLeod looked at him, skeptically. Methos raised his hands out of defeat. "Don't. I'm too old to deliberately live my life in misery. And I was miserable. It's not about you, MacLeod, it's how I feel about myself when I'm not around you."

"So you need me, but you don't want me."

Methos went back to working MacLeod's hand without answering. MacLeod didn't snatch it back, and Methos worked the base of MacLeod's thumb. MacLeod sighed and relaxed. Methos got up once to bring back another bottle, and when he went to sit down again, MacLeod motioned him in front of him.

Methos sat and hugged his knees as MacLeod moved up behind him. Mac pulled at his sweater, and Methos let him tug it off. Sitting next to the fire, he didn't miss the warmth, but then MacLeod began to work his shoulders. He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward slightly. MacLeod worked Methos' shoulders, and all the tension he didn't know he had drained out of him. MacLeod's hands were so warm, and the strength behind him never once crossed the line into pain.

Methos caught himself groaning once. He flushed, but MacLeod didn't stop. The wine was still pleasantly chilled, and the heat of the fire against his bare chest and MacLeod's friction made the wine's tartness extreme. It had been a long time since he could relax enough to actually let himself go. He exhaled, and hugged himself more tightly.

"Spend the night," MacLeod said. It was almost a question, but not quite. It was also the most intelligent thing to do; at the very least Methos didn't want to get dressed again and go out into the cold. The friend thing was shot. Friends didn't massage each other's hands, and they really didn't do the half-naked back massage thing.

There was no reason to go back to his hotel room and every reason to stay. MacLeod took his glass from him and topped up, but then withheld it. "Methos?" he asked, standing.

He didn't want to stand up. The wine had done odd things to his vertigo, and standing was just going to make him stumble. It was safer to remain on the floor. Nothing was going to happen if he stayed on the floor. Still, he offered MacLeod his wrist, and Mac easily pulled him up.

Standing wasn't as bad as he thought. "Did it work?" MacLeod asked. His voice sounded oddly amused.

"What work?" Methos asked.

"The wine. Are you numb yet?" MacLeod asked. He stepped up to him and ran his hand over Methos' clavicle.

"I felt that," Methos said.

"And this?" MacLeod asked. His thumb brushed up against his lips, and the sensation was only slightly muffled.

"It tickles."

MacLeod tried to kiss him, but Methos kept his mouth closed. MacLeod pulled away confused.

"Bed," Methos said. He was cold away from the fire, and the thick blanket over Mac's bed looked wonderfully enticing. MacLeod must have taken pity on him, because he led the way.

He sat down on the bed and pulled off his boots. MacLeod stood ready to help, but Methos had been taking off his boots in a drunken state for much longer than MacLeod had been alive.

The jeans took less energy. Methos pulled off his jeans and then collapsed down into the bed. MacLeod joined him a heartbeat later, and having his warmth behind him. MacLeod put his hand over his hip, but it never went more personal. Methos closed his eyes. Trusting MacLeod made it easier. He closed his eyes and let himself slip down. MacLeod kissed his shoulder just before he fell asleep.

He woke up the next morning, alone in bed. MacLeod glanced up from reading the newspaper on the island and pushed a second cup to him. Methos stood up, reaching for his jeans, and did them up on the way to the coffee. "Morning," MacLeod said.

"Morning," Methos said. He rubbed his face. "What time is it?"

"Just after eleven."

"You're kidding me," Methos said. He looked outside the window; the sunlight through the clouds was weak, but high in the sky. He stretched his shoulders. "Uh...thanks for last night," he said, and then yawned. "And this morning, I suppose."

"Been a while?"

"A year."

MacLeod made a non-committal sound. "So I suppose you are going to take off right away, go back to..." MacLeod said, obviously waiting for Methos to fill in the pause.

"I don't think so," Methos said. He took another sip of coffee. He pretended to be fascinated by the article on health care reform. "Thought I might stick around for a while."

"I see," MacLeod said. Methos glanced up for a second, and saw Mac smiling.

"If that's okay," he said, trying to hide his own smile.

"More than."

Methos looked up; the empty spot in him was starting to warm up again. It was...calming. "Good."

  
[End](<a)   



End file.
